The Girl at the Halfway House A Story of the PlainsBy: Emerson Hough (1857-1923)

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E text prepared by Al Haines

THE GIRL AT THE HALFWAY HOUSE

A Story of the Plains

by

EMERSON HOUGH

Author of The Covered Wagon , 54 40 or Fight , North of 36 , etc.

Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers New York

1900

TO EDWARD KEMEYS,

SOLDIER, HUNTER, AND SCULPTOR,

WHO KNEW AND LOVED THE WEST,

AND WHO HAS PRESERVED ITS SPIRIT IMPERISHABLY,

THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED WITH MANY GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

THE DAY OF WAR

CHAPTER

I. THE BRAZEN TONGUES
II. THE PLAYERS OF THE GAME
III. THE VICTORY

BOOK II

THE DAY OF THE BUFFALO

IV. BATTERSLEIGH OF THE RILE IRISH
V. THE TURNING OF THE ROAD
VI. EDWARD FRANKLIN, LAWYER
VII. THE NEW WORLD
VIII. THE BEGINNING
IX. THE NEW MOVERS
X. THE CHASE
XI. THE BATTLE
XII. WHAT THE HAND HAD TO DO
XIII. PIE AND ETHICS
XIV. THE FIRST BALL AT ELLISVILLE
XV. ANOTHER DAY
XVI. ANOTHER HOUR

BOOK III

THE DAY OF THE CATTLE

XVII. ELLISVILLE THE RED
XVIII. STILL A REBEL
XIX. THAT WHICH HE WOULD
XX. THE HALFWAY HOUSE
XXI. THE ADVICE OF AUNT LUCY
XXII. EN VOYAGE
XXIII. MARY ELLEN
XXIV. THE WAY OF A MAID
XXV. BILL WATSON
XXVI. IKE ANDERSON
XXVII. THE BODY OF THE CRIME
XXVIII. THE TRIAL
XXIX. THE VERDICT

BOOK IV

THE DAY OF THE PLOUGH

XXX. THE END OF THE TRAIL
XXXI. THE SUCCESS OF BATTERSLEIGH
XXXII. THE CALLING
XXXIII. THE GREAT COLD
XXXIV. THE ARTFULNESS OF SAM
XXXV. THE HILL OF DREAMS
XXXVI. AT THE GATEWAY

BOOK I

THE DAY OF WAR

CHAPTER I

THE BRAZEN TONGUES

The band major was a poet. His name is lost to history, but it
deserves a place among the titles of the great. Only in the soul of a
poet, a great man, could there have been conceived that thought by
which the music of triumph should pass the little pinnacle of human
exultation, and reach the higher plane of human sympathy.

Forty black horses, keeping step; forty trumpeters, keeping unison;
this procession, headed by a mere musician, who none the less was a
poet, a great man, crossed the field of Louisburg as it lay dotted with
the heaps of slain, and dotted also with the groups of those who sought
their slain; crossed that field of woe, meeting only hatred and
despair, yet leaving behind only tears and grief. Tears and grief, it
is true, yet grief that knew of sympathy, and tears that recked of
other tears.

For a long time the lines of invasion had tightened about the old city
of Louisburg, and Louisburg grew weaker in the coil. When the clank of
the Southern cavalry advancing to the front rang in the streets, many
were the men swept away with the troops asked to go forward to silence
the eternally throbbing guns. Only the very old and the very young
were left to care for the homes of Louisburg, and the number of these
grew steadily less as the need increased for more material at the
front. Then came the Southern infantry, lean, soft stepping men from
Georgia and the Carolinas, their long black hair low on their necks,
their shoes but tattered bits of leather bound upon their feet, their
blankets made of cotton, but their rifles shining and their drill
perfection. The wheat lay green upon the fields and the odours of the
blossoms of the peach trees hung heavy on the air; but there was none
who thought of fruitage or of harvest. Out there in front, where the
guns were pulsing, there went on that grimmer harvest with which the
souls of all were intimately concerned. The boys who threw up their
hats to greet the infantry were fewer than they had been before the
blossoming of the peach. The war had grown less particular of its
food. A boy could speed a bullet, or could stop one. There were yet
the boys.

Of all the old time families of this ancient little city none held
position more secure or more willingly accorded than the Fairfaxes and
the Beauchamps. There had always been a Colonel Fairfax, the leader at
the local bar, perhaps the representative in the Legislature, or in
some position of yet higher trust... Continue reading book >>